Tales of My Time Vol II of 3 by William Pitt Scargill

58 Pages·2021·0.54 MB·English

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Tales of My Time, Vol. II

(of 3), by William Pitt Scargill

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org

Title: Tales of My Time, Vol. II (of 3)

Who Is She; The Young Reformers

Author: William Pitt Scargill

Release Date: February 18, 2014 [eBook #44959]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF MY TIME, VOL. II (OF 3)***

E-text prepared by Heather Clark, Les Galloway,

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

(http://www.pgdp.net)

from page images generously made available by

Internet Archive

(https://archive.org)

Note:
Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/talesofmytime02scar

Project Gutenberg has the first volume of this work.
Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43756/43756-h/43756-h.htm

TALES

OF

MY TIME.

BY THE

AUTHOR OF BLUE-STOCKING HALL.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

WHO IS SHE?

THE YOUNG REFORMERS.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,

NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1829.

J. B. NICHOLS AND SON

25, Parliament Street.

CONTENTS

Page

WHO IS SHE?

CHAPTER X.
1

CHAPTER XI.
26

CHAPTER XII.
85

THE YOUNG REFORMERS. 137
PREFACE.
139

CHAPTER I.
141

CHAPTER II.
168

CHAPTER III.
193

CHAPTER IV.
220

CHAPTER V.
248

CHAPTER VI.
275

CHAPTER VII.
33

TALES OF MY TIME.

CHAPTER X.

"Les vrais evènemens de la Vie sont quelquefois, beaucoup plus incroyable que ceux que l'Imagination
presente à l'Esprit."

L'Abbe Prevôt.

There are some whose lot it is to pace the dull and beaten round of daily life like a sort of moral turn-spit, unconscious
of the stages by which they travel from the cradle to the tomb. To these the extraordinary accidents and romantic
coincidences, which occasionally chequer and diversify the flat road of human existence in the history of other men,
appear incredible as the Arabian Nights' Entertainment; yet Fiction, in her most fantastic mood, does not leave the
common average of events farther behind than reality is continually doing. Zorilda's was no common fate, and it pursued
her to the grave.

Rachel's schemes had prospered so entirely that, by the time that she and her young mistress reached the great northern
line, no farther anxiety attended their progress, and they journied onwards without apprehension. They stopped in the
first large town, and found no difficulty in procuring pecuniary supplies at the Bank. So far all proceeded smoothly; but
the pale cheek, and smileless eye, bore witness to that grief which "doth not speak" but "whispers the o'erfraught heart
and bids it break."

There is sorrow which lies too deep for the landscape or the breeze. Neither air nor scene can reach its dwelling; and
the change of both, which proves a sovereign balm to light afflictions, brought no healing to Zorilda's heart. It had not
been always thus. There was a time when her glad eye hailed the rising sun with answering ray; and her young spirit, all
alive to the charms of undefined but sparkling anticipation, which dresses the future in bright ideal glories, could carol
with the lark at early dawn. Alive, with more than common enthusiasm, to the beauties of nature, every opening bud and
blossom had once inspired joy; but the charm was broken, sunshine and spring only seemed now to mock her grief,

while one exclusive torturing thought occupied every avenue of sense. Algernon was false—Algernon was unworthy—
and the affection which could no longer flow in unresisted tide towards him, returned with all the overwhelming force of
a back-water current into her bosom.

It is maintained by some writers that woman's love ought to cling blindly to its object, and survive every trial. A true and
devoted attachment is indeed proof against every attack which can assail it from without. The female breast can endure
the rudest shocks of adversity, and outlive the severest reverses of fortune—it can preserve its bloom within the walls of
a prison, and its warmth amid Siberian snows—but it is a vulgar love which grasps at the empty casket, after the gem
which it contained is thrown away. Zorilda's soul was incapable of harbouring any but pure and exalted sentiments,
which when driven from the cherished object on whom they rested, came back with oppressive weight upon her
widowed breast.

After a day's journey, which had been rendered particularly fatiguing from bad horses, our travellers reached the town
of——. They arrived late, and found that every room at the inn was occupied. There was no second, and upon
inquiring for private lodgings, the landlady of the Greyhound assured them that it was quite vain to hope for a bed any
where. Young Squire Macdonald had just come of age. He was eldest son to Sir Herbert, and heir to immense estates.
The great house was undergoing repairs, and therefore a splendid ball, which it was impossible to give on the present
joyful occasion at the family mansion, was to assemble all the surrounding gentry that night at the inn. The company was
to be as numerous as possible, to secure popularity, and, "in fact," the landlady added, with a broad grin, "our powers
of accommodation are the only limits to Sir Herbert's hospitality on this happy event."

What was to be done? Nothing in nature could be less accordant with the feelings of Zorilda than the sound of mirth
and revelry; but the night was dark, and she feared to proceed any farther. The next stage too was long, and lay over a
dreary moor. The landlady also protested that she had not a horse in the stables which was not nearly "jaded to death."

"Only allow me to remain under the protection of your roof," said Zorilda, "I shall not require any care or attendance." "I
am sure," replied the landlady, "I never was so puzzled in all my life. If it was my sister, I could neither promise her a
bed or a mutton chop. Even now, while I stand talking, I assure you, Ma'am, that I am wanted in half a dozen different
places."

"I am sure of it," answered Zorilda; "but I can do without a bed and mutton chop. Only take me in. Put me any where,
but pray do not refuse me."

The landlady was mollified, and promised to do her best, but gave fair warning that that best would prove a sorry sort
of welcome to weary travellers.

Zorilda drew her veil closely over her face, and wrapping Rachel's large cloak round her person descended from the
carriage, and following the woman of the house through a long stone entry and up a wide stair-case, which were lighted
up and decorated with laurel branches, was ushered into a miserable scrap of an apartment, if indeed such a cage might
be dignified with the style of one. There was neither table nor chair in it, but both were to be brought in a few minutes.

"Here, Ma'am, is the only cranny that I have to offer you, and I am very sorry for it," said the landlady. "I should not
have even this to give you but for an accident to one of our gutters, and you see this wall is ruined by the deluge of
water that came down upon it. I sent to London for paper, which did not come in time, so here you perceive I have
been obliged to knock up a few boards, in the greatest hurry you can imagine, into a sort of partition, which I have hung
all over with drapery, on the other side, to hide the new timber. There are only a few gentlemen in the house, who are
sitting at their wine below stairs; and before the company assembles you could just step here into the ball-room, and I
think you will say that it is well contrived and tasty."

"I am obliged to you," answered Zorilda, "and am sure that all your arrangements are made in the best manner, but I will
take possession of my quarters, and only wish that they were farther removed from the gay revels which are soon to
begin. This is a thin partition, I hope at least that it is secure.

"Oh! bless you, yes, Ma'am. You will see nothing of the company. I wish I could guard you as well from hearing them,"
answered the landlady, whose houshold cares now "called her hence;" and who added, as she tripped out of the room,
"you will have little quiet or comfort, but you can lock your door on the inside, and when the hurry of supper is over, if I
can, I will get you a mattress."

Zorilda cared little about want of comfort, but she wished herself far from the riotous scene in which the sense of
hearing, if not of sight, was soon to be involved.

Rachel exerted herself to do as much for her mistress' accommodation, as the case would admit. A small table and an
arm-chair were provided, and "now, my dear child," said the kind hearted creature, "that I have at last seen you fairly
seated, I will go and see if I cannot fetch you a cup of hot coffee, and a nice dry toast." Carriages arrived, and the
company poured in like a torrent. A band of music began to play. Zorilda had never heard so full a harmony of
instruments since she left her native country, and the effect was magical. The musicians gave a popular Spanish air, to
which, when an infant of three years old, she had often danced with a little pair of castanets. The stores of memory
seemed suddenly unlocked. Her nurse, her cottage, the grove of chestnuts, the kind visitor whom she called her father,
all were pictured in her mind's eye with the most vivid colouring, and as if called by fairy wand from a world of shadows
to live again on earth.

"Oh! why cannot I remember thee, beloved mother," she exclaimed, as opening her precious packet which lay folded in
her bosom, she pressed the lovely image to her breast; "but no sound of melody can, with mysterious power, strike
upon that chord, and draw forth strains of 'linked sweetness.' I was too young when torn from this snowy pillow, to see,
to feel the heavenly mildness of that eye, the tender pathos of that smile."

The rooms filled, and all the "laughter loving Gods" were busy in producing such a din, that Zorilda's head ached from
an uproar so uncongenial with her spirits.

"Can this be pleasure?" said she, as she listened to the vapid jest, the unmeaning laugh, the idle listless talk, which,
penetrating the thin screen that separated her from the throng, came upon her unwilling ear. "Yes, these are the joys of
which Algernon used to tell me, and joys perhaps they might have seemed, if tasted in his society; but I resemble the
blind who live within, and imagination, which is most active when things external are shut out, weaves her web of
'sweet and bitter fancies,' which are little accordant with the world's opinions."

Rachel returned, but desirous to pursue her thoughts in solitude, Zorilda sent her to amuse herself with staring at all the
fine dresses and equipages, which formed in her estimation, the most magnificent spectacle she had ever looked upon;
and much did she wish if possible, to inspire her young mistress with a single spark of her own curiosity to witness so
splendid a pageant.

Once more alone in her cell, Zorilda endeavoured to abstract her mind from the noisy scene. She took out her mother's
diamond cross, and having kissed, she pinned it to her breast.

"I will wear you always," said she, "next my heart, but it shall be unseen. When I reach Drumcairn, I will have a ribband
and suspend it round my neck. This bracelet, too. These are my jewels, and they are gems of more worth than Potosi's
mines could furnish, or Golconda has ever sent forth."

She had laid aside her cloak and veil. Her beautiful hair, which was only restrained by a tortoise-shell comb from falling
over her shoulders, curled in rich profusion over her ivory throat and forehead. The air of evening had fanned a rose-
bud tint upon her cheek, and a black silk dress which folded across the bosom, formed the simple costume of her,
whom only the thickness of a half-inch board concealed from that mirthful multitude, over whom in mingling, she would
have reigned queen paramount, in loveliness and grace.

Amongst the papers which lay before her, was the letter which she had picked up in the walk at Henbury, when she had
been startled by a rustling in the bushes behind where she sat. The idea struck her as she now looked over it again, with
relation to other parts of her history since developed, that a father's care might watch at distance over her destiny. He
was an English nobleman, perhaps, nay probably, a married man, and withheld not only by a sense of the wrongs which
he had inflicted, but, also by existing family interests, from revealing himself to his injured child. This conjecture was little
soothing; on the contrary, a cold tremor ran through her frame at thoughts of him who basely deceived, and then
deserted those to whom he was bound by the most powerful ties of nature as well as moral obligation.

"Alas!" said she, "as my father, whoever, or wherever he may be, I owe him reverence; but may I be spared the
necessity of paying a tribute which could never be animated by affection! Better remain the unknown, despised 'Who is
she?' than obtain a name and place in society at the cost of incurring Heaven's displeasure by violating the first of earthly
duties."

As she uttered these words within her heart, her eyes were raised upwards, and her hands clasped in a posture of
supplication.

At this instant a heavy crash, as if one of the dancers had fallen with great force against the weak partition, levelled the
frail screen, which went to pieces, and came in fragments to the ground.

What a scene was now unveiled! Zorilda narrowly escaped receiving on her head a piece of the timber, which laid the
table at which she had been sitting prostrate at her feet, and together with it, the now scattered contents of her sacred
packet.

The male part of the assembly rushed simultaneously forward to offer assistance, while, terrified and amazed, our
heroine started from her seat, the most beautiful object that had ever graced a ball-room, revealing too

"the sparkling cross she wore,

Which saints might kiss, and infidels adore."

One gathered up the loose sheets of the narrative; another found the bracelets; and a third, who had seized the
miniature, glancing at it before he presented it to the owner, uttered an involuntary ejaculation, and stood like one
transfixed; but instantaneously recovering his presence of mind, he advanced, and grasping the hand which was
extended to receive the portrait, with frenzied fervour, restored the treasure trove, and darted out of the room. The
words which he had spoken, though probably not caught by others in the confusion of the moment, reached Zorilda's
ear, for her eyes were intently fixed on him whom she saw take up her picture from the floor; and the exclamation, "Oh!
my daughter!" reverberating through every nerve, she felt her knees refuse their office, and tottering backwards, she fell
into the arm-chair, almost bereft of sense; yet dreading the effect of her emotion, and fearful of losing again any part of
what she prized more than life itself, she seemed suddenly invigorated, and hastily folding her packet once more to her

bosom, she waved her head gracefully in acknowledgment of gratitude for polite attention, and pressed towards the
door, which was opened for her by one of the many who were only anxious to try who should be foremost in affording
aid. Numberless arms were proffered to support her, but declined, and with such an air of sincerity, as forbade all
farther solicitations.

The waiters who had heard the crash, came running from all parts of the house, and Rachel was not wanting in the train,
who flew to inquire what had happened. Zorilda seized her arm, and desired to be shown immediately to the landlady's
apartment. Thither she was conveyed, quite exhausted.

"I must leave this place," said she, "before the dawn of day. Offer any thing as a bribe for fresh horses, but procure me
the means of quitting this inn before the company break up; here I cannot stay, and the repose which this dreadful
uproar denies, may be found at no great distance. I am not well, and my brain will become disordered if I cannot find
quiet. Dear Rachel use your best diligence."

Rachel left the room; and as there are few things which money cannot procure, an offer of double fare soon produced
the promise of as fine a pair of horses as ever ran in harness, which it was now recollected could be had at break of
day. Ere long, she returned with the news, and with a story to boot.

"Lord o' mercy, my dear, but I have had my own share of trouble since I left you here, less than half an hour ago. There
is all the whole town, I believe, in a ferment about you. 'Who is she? Who is she?' says one: 'Who is she? Where does
she come from? Where is she going?' says another. I thought they would tear me to pieces among them. 'Is she a
foreigner? Spanish, French, or Italian?' Now all along we forgot to settle what name you should bear, and it came into
my head, that it would not be any way creditable to be without one, so when they let me speak, I answered fair and
softly, that you were Miss Gordon, going home to your relations in Scotland; that you were in trouble about one of them
lately dead, and wished to be as private as could be. I had fifty offers of carriages from both ladies and gentlemen, and
one and all they say, that such a beauty as yourself they never beheld. One young gentleman followed after me, when I
returned thanks, and refused the rest; and sure I was ready to sink into the earth with consternation when he called me
by my own name, given me at my baptism fifty-two years ago. 'Rachel,' says he, as plain as you ever spoke the word:
'Rachel,' says he, 'your lady is not unknown to me. If I may have the honour of seeing her, but for a moment, I will give
her a letter which she dropped in her way from the ball-room, and entreat her to accept my best services in any manner
that may be most useful.'

"'Sir,' says I, 'you have the advantage of me, but I am much obliged, and will let my mistress know all you say;' so here's
the message, and I am to take back your answer; but like a noodle, I forgot to ask whose compliments I was to bring
you."

"Never mind, never mind;" answered Zorilda, in great agitation; "I do not know any body; nor will I see any person. Go
back; request the gentleman to give you whatever letter of mine he has found, and decline all farther communication. Be
civil, but firm, and bring me no farther offers of assistance, which I do not intend to accept."

Rachel saw that there was no use in attempting to alter this determination, and though she would have been well pleased
to convey a more conciliatory reply, she thought it prudent to do as she was desired without farther comment. The
young gentleman waited her return, and Rachel acquitted herself of her task, mitigating the severity of a refusal, by
assuring him how grateful her Lady felt for his politeness.

"Give her back her letter then," said the stranger, who, during the interval of Rachel's absence, had asked for a sheet of
paper, and inclosed it with these words:

"For worlds I would not be thought an intruder by Zorilda, and I therefore submit to her decision, which I anticipate.
The letter accidentally dropped in the hurry of her retreat is now restored—extraordinary coincidence—by its writer;
and he who now returns it is no other than the unseen guardian, who has for some time past watched unperceived, and
been the fortunate means of saving much disquiet to her, who, once seen, must be remembered for ever."

"Unaccountable, intricate, bewildering destiny!" exclaimed Zorilda. "Can it be possible? Have I met my father? Was it
he who grasped my hand? Have I refused a parent's request; and is it he who returns the letter, which, by a mysterious
allotment of Providence (for who but the infidel talks of chance) has been directed to his hand?"

"Put such a notion out of your head, my dear young lady," replied Rachel, who stood behind, and of whose presence
Zorilda was unconscious when she spoke aloud. "No, no; the young gentleman who gave me that letter for you might be
your brother indeed, and not much older than yourself; but as to being your father, you need not perplex yourself on
that score. You have enough to be unhappy about, my poor dear, without such fancies. If it was the poor gentleman
who was taken sick, and came out of the ball-room ready to faint, and drank a glass of water, and ordered his carriage
in the greatest hurry, and looked like one possessed of an evil spirit; if he was the person that gave me the letter, it
would be quite a different affair, for though a very fine man, tall as a may-pole, and straight as an arrow, he could not be
less than forty, and a Lord into the bargain—Lord, Lord—something beginning with——."

"Oh! no more guessing," interrupted Zorilda, "what have I to do with any one? Make no inquiry, I charge you, I know
enough. Hasten my departure."

When Rachel disappeared to collect her luggage and pay the bill, Zorilda, still pondering on the events of the evening,

now conjectured, that the young unknown, to whom she was indebted for some unexplained benefit, must be the
person against whose attempts to write to, or speak with her, Algernon had given her an impressive caution when he
was going to Marchdale Court. "Alas!" said she, "he need not have feared a rival; but it is past. These feverish
uncertainties will soon have an end; and my beloved friend, whose name is now my shield and safeguard, will discover
some retreat in which I may hide my head and bury my sorrows."

The riot began to subside, the music ceased, the last carriage rolled from the door, and a silvery streak along the eastern
horizon gave notice of the coming day, when Zorilda's post-chaise was ready to receive her.

"Since I have been delayed till after the departure of these people," said she, "I will make a little alteration in my route in
hopes to get rid of them. You see this map, Rachel, look; we will turn into this road. It cannot make the difference of
more than five or six miles; and here you see we shall come again into the exact line of our journey when all this crowd
of revellers will have reached their several homes." "You were always knowing in maps, and such like," answered
Rachel. "I know nothing but to desire the post-boy to drive whichever way you bid me; only take care not to go into
any bye place, where you will not find a chaise or horses to take you on."

"We will lie by for the day then at the next stage," replied Zorilda, "and perhaps it will be no harm to do so; at all events,
Rachel, I am very ill. Come, let us be gone."

So saying, she hurried down stairs along the squalid scene of departed festivity, assailed at every step by an expiring
lamp, or the remains of a wassail bowl, at which the servants had been liberally plied. Sick and weary, Zorilda threw
herself into the carriage, and blessed the morning air, which breathed "wooingly" upon her senses, and dispelled the
horrible atmosphere of the inn.

An officious hostler stood at the horses' heads to prove that their fire required to be restrained; but the fact was, that it
was with difficulty they could be urged from the door. Zorilda desired that they might not be pushed beyond their
strength; and the postilion, making a virtue of necessity, assuring her at the same time that his "cattle" could easily go at
the rate of ten miles an hour, condescended to let them go at the only pace of which they were capable, a snail-slow
walk, by which, in course of time, they arrived at a house seven miles on the stage of fifteen which they had to go. Here
the horses were to bait; and precisely as the driver flourished his whip, to bring his tired beasts up to the door with
some sort of eclat, a heavy waggon, which had just descended a steep hill in the opposite direction, came in such
violent contact with the wheels of Zorilda's chaise as to overturn it in an instant into a deep ditch by the road side.

The people of the house ran to assist the travellers; but Zorilda had fainted from the agony of a dislocated wrist, and it
was some time before she could be extricated from her perilous situation. At length she was conveyed into the house,
and laid upon a bed; while Rachel, almost distracted with apprehension, implored every body whom she met to go for a
surgeon. None was to be had nearer than the town which they had left in the morning, and the only expedient was to
send off a man and horse, but there was no horse in the stable at this poor place, and all that remained was to dispatch
the post-boy with one of his tired steeds back again. In the interim the dislocated joint might become inflamed, and the
greatest difficulty occur in replacing it. Zorilda continued insensible; Rachel ran nearly frantic out of the house to way lay
the passengers, if any were haply going the road, who could assist her in this distress. A horseman advanced.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Rachel; "I will tell him what has happened, and he will be a swifter messenger, if he will
undertake the thing, than this looby and his jaded beast."

Running to meet the gentleman, who approached at a swinging trot, what was the poor woman's joyful surprise to
recognise the young man who had restored the letter, and whom she left only a few short hours preceding, at the inn
where the ball had been given.

No time was lost, and even Rachel, loquacious as was her usual habit, was brief on this occasion. The stranger alighted
in an instant, and only employing the precaution of charging Rachel on no account to divulge either to Miss Gordon, or
to any one whomsoever, her previous acquaintance with him, flew to the apartment in which Zorilda, suffering tortures
of pain, had just opened her eyes on the women who were rubbing her forehead, applying burnt feathers to her nostrils,
and trying whatever other scanty means the place supplied, to restore animation. The young gentleman, whom the
patient at once concluded to be a medical practitioner, immediately pulled the injured limb, and with a powerful and
skilful effort replaced the joint. Then, calling for vinegar and spirits, he bathed the hand and arm, which he bound, and
leaving Rachel to prepare for accompanying her mistress to his father's house, which was, he said close at hand, and
from whence he would immediately despatch a carriage for her conveyance thither. He re-mounted his horse with the
rapidity of lightning, and disappeared in an instant.

Before it was possible to imagine that he could have ridden a mile and back again, he returned with the family coach, in
which his sister had brought cushions, shawls, pillows, and all sorts of accommodation for the invalid, whose acute pain
and fever, added to the tears of Rachel, induced her to submit without resistance. Zorilda suffered herself to be placed
in the coach, and conveyed to Sir Godfrey Cecil's splendid abode, where, leaving her under medical care, we must
digress for a little while to explain some circumstances connected with the family amongst whom, she was now
introduced by the singular course of her fortunes.

CHAPTER XI.

"I was born so high

Our eiry buildeth in the cedar top,
And dallies with the winds, and scorns the sun."

Shakspeare.

Sir Godfrey Cecil derived De Lacy castle, with the immense estates which descended to him along with this noble
remnant of feudal pride, through a long line of ancestors, whose gaunt effigies, clad in shining mail, lined the great
baronial hall, whose banners waved upon his chapel walls, and whose proud escutcheons were engraved upon those
last records of departed grandeur which still proclaim amid all the pomp of heraldry, that dust hath to dust returned.

Sir Godfrey had married early into the ancient house of the De Burgho's and as he pored with constantly renewed
delight over the pages of Froissart, it was his favourite boast that every name distinguished by that immortal chronicler,
was allied to him or to his consort the Lady Grace. In fine there were few failures in the moral code for which, though
himself a man of the correctest conduct, he could not have more easily found excuse, than for obscurity of birth.

Lady Grace paid the same devotion to hereditary honours, and the general bearing of her tastes and pursuits was in
perfect accordance with those of her husband. She knew the quarterings of every shield, and there was not a crest
throughout the land with the device and history of which Lady Grace Cecil was unacquainted. Sir Godfrey and his wife,
therefore, lived in all the harmony of kind intercourse, and mutual appeal upon those subjects which interested them
both most nearly; and were the best friends imaginable, till any accidental occurrence produced, or led to competition
between the merits of a Cecil and De Burgho. Angry looks and taunting speech would then interrupt domestic harmony;
but, as such conflicts did not frequently happen, Sir Godfrey and Lady Grace might be fairly called a very happy
couple. Making allowance for this single foible, they were deservedly entitled to the character which they held for all
those qualities which ought to adorn exalted birth. They were people of lofty principle, unsullied honour, and boundless
munificence.

It was Sir Godfrey's rule that station makes the man, and one of the first maxims which he endeavoured to impress on
the minds of his children was, that every individual whose fortune it was to be greatly born, owed it to his pedigree not
to disgrace the armorial bearings committed to his safe custody, by a mean thought or sordid action.

It was an apparent anomaly at De Lacy castle that, though known to be as proud as Lucifer, the affability of Sir
Godfrey and his Lady was a continual topic of popular praise. The truth was, that they were real aristocrats. It was not
the paltry distinction of a new title, nor the accidental acquisition of wealth, which they held in esteem. Poverty was no
crime in their eyes. Alfred, turning the old woman's cakes at the fire, was as truly great in their contemplation, as Alfred
dressed in ermined robes, and seated on his kingly throne; but woe to the Parvenû who entered their presence,
however studded over with stars and garters. They would give gold to the needy, pity and protection to the friendless,
but honour was denied to all who could not boast of ancient descent, and he who was not able to trace his lineage to at
least the time of William the Conqueror, had little chance of rendering himself a welcome visitor, at the proud baronial
residence to which we have just introduced our readers.

Sir Godfrey and Lady Grace had an only son and daughter, and never were two young persons more deserving of
parental tenderness than Clara and Lionel Cecil, who were at once "their father's pride and mother's joy." The
difficulties which raised a barrier to sending their affections abroad, had the happy effect of concentrating them at home;
and the mutual attachment of this interesting brother and sister was a source of unfailing delight to themselves, and of
admiration to all who witnessed its pleasing influence upon their manners and dispositions, to which were added the
attractions of fine talent and external beauty.

We are often led to observe how puny are the efforts of little man, with all his free-will, to alter or disturb the general
laws of providence. If pride, for instance, always engendered pride, and continued an increasing quality, this earthly
theatre would soon be too small for the pretensions of an inflated few, but fortunately excess of every kind carries its
antidote along with the bane, and re-action is frequently as favourable to the growth of moral excellence as direct
example; hence a profligate father is not always permitted to entail a curse upon his offspring, who, disgusted by his evil
courses, start into an opposite track themselves. The miser is often followed by a liberal son. The spendthrift succeeded
by one of economical habits. An age of infidelity gives birth to a generation of believers; one of fanaticism, to rational
inquiry, and thus while we are still invariably taught that motives alone constitute virtue in individual character, we
perceive that limits are set to the consequences of human vice; and all things are so ordered as to work together for
good upon the great scale of creation. A striking confirmation of this remark was exhibited by the children of the house
of Cecil, who, though they entertained the sincerest veneration and affection for their parents, were rather inclined to
take the opposite extreme of family pride, and value too little that which they heard so much overrated every day.

Lionel Cecil enjoyed every advantage which wealth could impart, and repaid the care which was bestowed upon his
education, by making a distinguished figure both at Eton and Oxford. To a noble exterior, and splendid abilities, he
added all the lighter accomplishments, which shine in mixed society. Full of youthful manliness and grace, the natural
gaiety of his spirits was tempered by such a gentleness of disposition, as served to soften, without enervating his
character. Never having had a brother, Clara was the companion of his infant sports, and the friend of riper years. The

most perfect confidence subsisted between these amiable young people who were twins in affection, though Lionel was
somewhat older than his sister.

Now it so happened that young Cecil made one of a shooting party, which our readers may remember at Thornton
Abbey; and dined at Henbury, in company with the Marquis of Turnstock and a few others, invited thither by Algernon
Hartland. The exquisite beauty of Zorilda, heightened by that shrinking timidity which shunned the admiration which it
excited, had struck a lively impression on his feelings, which time had not effaced from memory. The little he had heard
her speak, was addressed to Mr. Playfair, but the pathetic sweetness of her voice lived on his ear, as her image did in
his heart. She looked unhappy, and Lionel would have given a diadem to know the subject of her sorrows, and remove
it. As he gazed upon her perfections, he wished for those days of chivalry, of which his father loved to tell the gallant
feats performed by his ancestors, and thought that no such lovely Lady as Zorilda, had ever smiled upon true knight in
the olden time.

The inquiries which were prompted by curiosity, met with such reply as to stimulate romance in the moment of arresting
hope. "Who is she?" "Nobody knows." What an answer for the only son, heir, and representative of the proudest family
in England! "Whence comes she?" "From a gipsey camp. How she got there no one can tell."

Lionel was too honourable to cherish an idea of clandestine love, and too good to make his parents miserable. He must,
therefore, banish the idle vision, and shake off the sudden fascination which entangled his heart. This determination was
aided after his return to Oxford, by certain observations on the manner of young Hartland, whenever Lord Turnstock
rallied him on the subject of Zorilda's beauty, which had not been carelessly remarked by the Marquess as
circumstances proved in the sequel. From some indications which were exhibited on such occasions, Lionel concluded
that an engagement already subsisted between Algernon and the charming Spaniard.

When this conviction stole upon his mind he gave a sigh, and could not refrain from saying to himself, "How happy are
those, who, free to follow the bent of inclination, may taste the sweets of mutual love unshackled by these bonds, these
galling chains of feudal despotism!"

This sigh, however, was the last. Lionel resolved to hold no dalliance with his duty, and with a manly resolution he
plucked from his breast the forbidden thought, and had forgotten the short-lived dream which, for a time, murdered his
repose, when Lord Turnstock arrived from the Continent. Lionel had never liked him, and now less than ever; he spoke
of his former friend and ally Hartland in terms of unmeasured hatred and contempt, and one evening let out in convivial
openness, that he was planning a good trick to vex him, adding, in a careless way, "by the bye, can any one tell me of
that Spanish girl, that handsome gipsey who lives at Hartland's house? I have some business to transact with her."

These words were repeated accidentally to Cecil by one of the party, who thought that he could perceive some
connection between the "good trick," and the Spanish gipsey. Cecil thought so too, and resolved, as far as he was able,
to avert danger from Zorilda by giving her such warning as to put her effectually on her guard, till the arrival of her lover
should place her in security.

With this generous design, Lionel set out on a visit of a few days to Thornton Abbey, having had the satisfaction of
seeing Lord Turnstock unexpectedly called in another direction by the death of a relation, from whom he hoped for a
legacy. Cecil justly surmised, that this would give a new turn to the Marquess' thoughts, for a short time at least, and
afford him the desired opportunity of frustrating any scheme inimical to Zorilda's safety. When he reached the
neighbourhood of Henbury he made himself acquainted with Zorilda's daily habits, and conveyed the letter before
mentioned in the manner already described. Clara was the only person to whom he had ever spoken of Zorilda, with
whom his late meeting at the ball was purely accidental; and for her sake, as well as his own, he now wished with
scrupulous care to suppress every hint of his having been the person who sent her a message through Rachel at the inn.
Such intelligence might produce embarrassment on her part, and render her anxious to leave De Lacy castle before her
health was sufficiently re-established to encounter a journey; and for himself, the slightest acknowledgment of former
acquaintance with, or interest concerning Zorilda, would infallibly awaken alarm in the minds of Sir Godfrey and Lady
Grace.

Secrecy being therefore determined upon, an able surgeon was immediately sent for, who found his patient extremely
feverish. After bandaging the injured wrist, and administering a composing draught, he ordered perfect quiet, and took
his leave, promising to pay an early visit on the following day. Nothing could surpass the kindness with which the sick
stranger was treated by the whole family, and she had been nearly twelve hours under the roof before Lady Grace
asked, "Who is she?"

"Some Miss Gordon," answered Clara, "returning to her family in Scotland.

"The name is a good one," replied Lady Cecil. "Did you hear, my love, whether she is of the—-"

"Her maid, I believe," said Miss Cecil, hastily, "is no genealogist. She looks like an old heir-loom in the shape of a
nurse, who has been more conversant with swaddling-clothes than coats of arms; but I am sure that Miss Gordon must
be of a good stock, she is so pretty and so elegant."

"That is a fallacious test, as I have often told you," rejoined Lady Cecil. "To be sure it little signifies when we are merely
called upon to relieve distress, what rank the sufferer holds in the Herald's Court. We reserve that inquiry for our
friendships and alliances."

Clara being afraid of displeasing her mother by an ill-timed remark on the possibility of giving one's confidence, and
affection too, without referring to her mother's favourite volume, entitled, "Norroy King at Arms," contented herself with
assenting to the first branch of her proposition, while the latter was left undisputed, and went to inquire whether there
was any thing that she could do for her guest.

On the surgeon's return next day Zorilda's fever had greatly increased, and the accident which she had met with only
appeared its accelerating, not original cause. Her mind was the real seat of malady. The unkindness of Lady Marchdale,
and the perfidy of her once beloved Algernon, preyed upon her innocent heart, while the occurrence of such strange
events as she had lately experienced, confused her head. On the third day of her illness she became delirious, and raved
incessantly of all that weighed upon her spirit, but so incoherently, that none who was ignorant of her story could draw
any collected evidence from the wild and whirling words which she uttered. The name of Algernon, however, escaped
her lips so often as to convince young Cecil, to whom his sister reported all she heard, that a deep attachment existed in
Zorilda's breast, of which Lord Hautonville was the object.

"Alas!" said Lionel, "the sweet girl has little knowledge of the man to whom she has betrothed her guileless heart. Her
pure mind arrays the image of its devotion in the colours of her own glowing fancy, and represents the object of her love
as he should be, not as he is. I would not have you, my Clara, married to Lord Hautonville though he wore a crown
imperial, and could trace his pedigree through a forest, instead of a single tree."

"I neither love crowns nor pedigrees for myself," replied Clara; "but we must not let the artless Zorilda be deceived. We
must devise means of snatching her from future misery, if you know the object of her regards to be unworthy of them."

"It is a delicate task," answered Cecil, "but she may perhaps have made discoveries, the pain of which now presses on
her feeble frame. I have questioned her attendant, who is a niggard of her information, or ignorant of what I want to
know. Yet still I can gather, that this lovely creature has been harshly treated by Lady Marchdale, whose aversion to
the idea of her son's alliance with the friendless Zorilda, I conclude to be the cause of a manner so contrary to her
former kindness. Perhaps the noble minded stranger may have set out upon this journey to remove all solicitude from
the minds of her benefactors, and make a sacrifice of her own inclination to her sense of honour and virtue; but what a
man must he be, who, knowing himself in possession of Zorilda's affections, can thus basely desert her?"

"He may not know of the sacrifice," said Clara. "Upon proposing to the old nurse to write to Miss Gordon's friends,
and inform them of her present situation, she conjured me to preserve an inviolable secrecy respecting her, alleging the
probable speedy termination of her illness, and the fear of alarming her relations, as the pretext for silence; but so
extraordinary was the poor woman's vehemence, so urgent her entreaty, that I could not help feeling that 'more was
meant than met the ear.'"

A physician who was called concurred with surgeon Crump, that no danger of contagion was to be dreaded, and Clara
took advantage of this assurance to bestow the tenderest care on her guest, frequently stealing from her own room at
night, to take Rachel's post and send her to bed.

Zorilda's illness was both tedious and alarming, and several weeks elapsed before her medical attendants pronounced
their patient convalescent. Such a time however arrived, and the benevolence which offered asylum to distress now met
its full reward. The doctors, however, insisted particularly on the utmost caution, and to Zorilda's earnest prayer to be
told how soon she might resume her journey, constantly replied, that as a relapse would probably be fatal, she owed it
to her friends as well as to herself to avoid the risk of one. She was permitted however to leave her chamber, and enjoy
the society of her kind hosts in an adjoining dressing-room, where she received the most friendly congratulations on her
recovery. Sir Godfrey, who had not seen his fair ward till now, was fascinated by her beauty, which late illness had only
rendered more touching: and whatever impression was made by Zorilda's exterior form, was confirmed by her manners
and conversation. Gratitude called upon her for every exertion to repay such kindness as she had found, and ere many
days were past, that which at first was effort, became inclination.

Armed with the honourable determination to preserve his heart from all entanglement, under the full persuasion that
Zorilda's was already attached to another object, Lionel gave himself freely up to the charms of an intercourse,
rendered the more seductive from the supposed security of the case, and Zorilda's dressing-room became the scene of
all that delicate attention and polished taste could devise for her amusement. Clara had her harp and guitar transported
thither, and delighted her young friend by the sweetest music, when she feared that conversation might exhaust her,
while Lionel came laden with fresh stores of books and fine prints with which to beguile the hours, which flew on golden
pinion.

One day, on the return of Clara and her brother from attending Sir Godfrey and Lady Cecil in a visit of ceremony,
Zorilda, who believing them all absent had been singing some of her softest melodies to the guitar, was surprised by her
young friends, who stood for a long time outside the door of her apartment, held in bondage there by the captivation of
her plaintive voice. This discovery opened a new source of attraction, and Clara, who loved nothing in creation like
Lionel, began to grow uneasy lest society so congenial, and becoming each day more and more ensnaring, should
produce too much present gratification for his future repose.

"I almost wish the day of parting were arrived," said she, as she held her brother's arm in a stroll in the pleasure-
grounds. "This Spanish Syren will become too necessary to us, and we shall not know how to live without her."

Lionel started, and seemed to feel the truth of Clara's apprehension, but instantly repressing the emotion which her
remark had excited, he answered with an assumed firmness, which imposed upon his sister as well as himself,

"She would indeed be a dangerous visitor here, were not the certainty that her affections are pre-occupied a perfect
safeguard against the sorcery of such loveliness and modesty as never before appeared in union with such various
talents. Zorilda is a wonder of nature, but I never look on her without repeating my lesson—that she belongs to
another; that with Lady Hautonville I have no other bond than that which a singular coincidence of romantic
circumstances has thrown in my way. She is a stranger here, and will depart hence, leaving, it may be, such a standard
of female excellence in one's mind, as to increase the difficulties of falling in love elsewhere; but as I am in no haste to
marry, and our good father has no crotchet in his head for me, you may set your anxieties to sleep, and let us not be
over wise in our prudence."

Clara was satisfied and returned to Zorilda's dressing-room, lightened of a weight which had oppressed her.

The security which Lionel only imagined, was real in Zorilda's instance. Her soul was fortified by feelings of pain so
deeply seated, that though the happiness of companionship, and the sympathy of kindness, such as she now
experienced, had power to soothe, they had none to change her heart, which was sealed, by her misfortunes, to every
impression of a dangerous sort; while the total absence of vanity in her character, precluded all suspicion of that effect
which she produced on others. Increasing strength extended the permission of indulgence, and the invalid was allowed
to take the air.

The gardens and grounds around De Lacy castle were worthy of that sumptuous edifice, which stood in the midst of
scenery rendered doubly delightful in Zorilda's eyes by her long confinement; and the enthusiastic admiration which she
bestowed upon the surrounding landscape, flattered the pride of Sir Godfrey as much as it excited a tenderer interest in
the mind of his son. Time rolled on, and Zorilda, who saw how genuine was the expression of sorrow in Clara's
countenance, whenever she spoke of departure, had refrained from questioning her physician. Her hand was still too
weak to hold a pen; and she had, for obvious reasons, declined all offers of informing her Scotch friends, through any
other medium, of her situation. Nay, she even rejoiced, on one account, that they were as ignorant of her present retreat
as the family of Henbury, since, should the latter desire to pursue or recall her, what so natural as to apply for
information concerning movements to the only persons with whom she had ever formed a bond of friendship?

But Zorilda was not insensible to the extraordinary appearance which her neglected condition must wear in the eyes of
her hosts, who did frequently express their astonishment that no letters arrived for their guest. At length our heroine,
struggling to overcome the reluctance with which she resolved on tearing herself from those whose truth and tenderness
had won upon her heart, producing the fullest return of all that she had to give, imparted to Miss Cecil her fixed design
to pursue her purpose, and set out in a few days for Scotland, adding,

"My beloved Clara will not endeavour to dissuade me any longer from doing what she would herself feel to be right and
necessary, were our situations reversed; what must Sir Godfrey and Lady Cecil think of a deserted wanderer, thus
apparently bereft of all the natural ties that bind to house, to home, to kindred?"

"They have been prevented from wondering much upon this subject," answered Clara, "by my brother's care, and my
own, to assure them that you are incapable of any but the highest and the best motives for concealment. That none but
parents possess such rights as to make it strange that, in default of their claims, of which perhaps death may have
deprived you, your silence respecting an accident which has blessed us with your society during a few short weeks, has
spared the feelings of more distant relatives, who may expect with less solicitude than would be a father or a mother's
portion. Am I right? And if I am,...